


All Manner of Thing Shall Be Well

by Tenukii



Series: Good Omens [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-04-24 08:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19169590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenukii/pseuds/Tenukii
Summary: Against his better judgment, Aziraphale accepts the offer to stay at Crowley’s place.  Aziraphale’s nervous.  Crowley’s nervous.  Agnes didn’t leave them any advice about playing with this kind of fire.





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale hadn’t been to Crowley’s flat in quite some time.  He wasn’t quite sure why they never met there—perhaps it was the atmosphere, which Aziraphale found rather bleak—but Crowley never suggested it, and Aziraphale never asked.  That made Crowley’s offer all the more extraordinary, and Aziraphale all the more reluctant to accept it.

It wasn’t really that they might still be keeping track up there (and even if they _were_ , Aziraphale was already in so much trouble, spending the night with Crowley couldn’t very well make much difference).  Instead, the angel was worried about. . . .  Well, no, not _worried_ , per se.  Aziraphale couldn’t put a name to what he felt until he stepped inside the flat and Crowley shut the door behind him; then he realized what it was.

Aziraphale felt nervous.

Just then, he was tired—he was _very_ tired, and he wanted comfort.  He wanted familiarity and reassurance.  Crowley’s starkly furnished flat offered none of those things.  In short, Aziraphale wanted his bookshop, and this was not it.

But the bookshop was no more, and he had nowhere else to go, and anyhow, it was so lovely of Crowley to offer, Aziraphale couldn’t very well keep saying no.  So he stepped nervously inside and went nervously along the hall, pausing to peek in the sunroom and offer a nervous compliment.

“Your plants are doing quite well, I see,” Aziraphale observed.

“They’d better be,” said Crowley cryptically.  He brushed past Aziraphale and stalked down the dim grey hallway into another room.  Aziraphale seemed to recall it being the kitchen.

“Care for a drink?” Crowley called a moment later.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Aziraphale called back.  He followed Crowley into what was indeed the kitchen, an antiseptic sort of room filled with stainless steel appliances which all looked as if they’d never been used.  Although he doubted Crowley had been suggesting tea, Aziraphale told him, “A cup of tea would be lovely.”

“Cream and sugar?”

“Do you have any honey?”  Aziraphale looked hopeful.  “I don’t suppose you do.”

“Of course I do,” said Crowley.  He turned to take a jar down from a cupboard, and Aziraphale decided to pretend he hadn’t noticed the demon snapping his fingers when he thought Aziraphale couldn’t see.  Aziraphale didn’t feel it would be polite to nag in someone else’s home, and again, Crowley really was being lovely about everything.

Spying a kettle—also stainless steel—on the stove, Aziraphale offered, “I’ll put the kettle on.”  He did that, and Crowley took down mugs (Aziraphale silently mourned his own 150-year-old Wedgwood tea cups), and it was all rather pleasant in a domestic sort of way.  By the time he sat down at the little black kitchen table in an uncomfortable, straight-backed black chair with a warm mug between his hands, Aziraphale’s nerves had calmed somewhat.

Until Crowley looked at him from across the table and asked, “Are you all right?”

“What, me?” Aziraphale stammered.  “Of course.  Shouldn’t I be?”

Crowley shrugged his thin shoulders and continued to regard the angel through his sunglasses.  “Dunno.  Dunno that _I’m_ all right yet.  It’s been a long day.”

“Yes,” agreed Aziraphale, “it has.”  He sipped from his mug, clenching his hand around the handle to keep it steady.  He felt as if it might shake, otherwise.

“And you, you’ve been discorporated.”  Crowley gestured at Aziraphale with his own mug, almost but not quite sloshing tea out.  “Are you sure you’ve completely recovered from that?  That the boy really gave you a proper body and all?”

Aziraphale told him, “Yes, quite sure.  And no paperwork required.”  He laughed, although it sounded stilted even to him.  Crowley’s mouth twitched in a half smile that quickly faded, and Aziraphale thought he looked rather nervous and unhappy himself.

_Oh, this is ridiculous,_ the angel chided himself, _just because I’m out of sorts, I shouldn’t be rude to the dear boy!_

He took another gulp of tea then said, “Crowley, thank you for asking.  You really have been very ni—very kind.  Especially after. . . .”  He trailed off, and Crowley’s eyebrows raised over the tops of his glasses.

“Especially after what?” the demon asked.

“. . . Everything,” Aziraphale said weakly.  Now he realized his nervousness wasn’t from being in Crowley’s flat, or not just.  He was also nervous because they were alone in private for the first time since a lot of things had happened, and there were words Aziraphale felt he should say, and he didn’t know how to say them.  Apologies came hard to angels.

“Right then,” said Crowley with a bit more of a smile; then he drained the rest of his mug.  “I’m off to bed.”

“Oh,” murmured Aziraphale with dismay.  He knew how much Crowley liked to sleep and certainly didn’t begrudge him that after the day they’d had.  Yet he didn’t want to be left alone, either.

Crowley studied him through the sunglasses, then got up and went to the sink to wash his mug.  Over his shoulder, the demon offered, “You can come too.  There’s plenty of room.”

“Oh—” Aziraphale said again, nearly choked, and managed to swallow instead.  He cleared his throat and went on, “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of—of imposing like that.”

“Well, I don’t have a sofa, or any chairs _you’d_ find comfortable,” replied Crowley, “but you’re welcome to sit up if you like.”  He turned around to face Aziraphale while drying his hands on a towel.  “I know you don’t _need_ to sleep any more than I do, but really, don’t you want a break?”

“A break?  From what?”

“From _thinking_.”  Crowley pronounced the word while curling his upper lip in a sneer.

“That would be nice,” Aziraphale admitted.  “I haven’t anything to sleep in, though.”  Crowley made a face and came over to pick up the angel’s mug.

“Miracle,” he said.  Aziraphale looked up at him bleakly, and Crowley added, “No one’s watching.  No one _cares_ at this point.”

“But it’s the most frivolous of frivolous miracles, changing my clothes for _bed_ —”

“I’ll do it, but you probably won’t enjoy what I put you in,” warned Crowley as he returned to the sink to wash Aziraphale’s mug too.  “Or you can borrow something of mine, I suppose.”

“It wouldn’t fit,” sighed Aziraphale.  “Oh all right, but only this one time, because I’m too tired to argue with you.”  Of course, that begged the question of what he would do the next night, and the one after that, but Aziraphale put those worries aside for the time being.

“Right.  Bedroom’s this way.”  Crowley left the mugs in the drainer and gestured for Aziraphale to follow him.  On the way down the hall, the demon asked, “Do you want a shower?  Suppose I could miracle away the dirt too, but it’s more satisfying with water, I’ve found.  Only time I like being wet, really.  Hate the rain.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said absently.  They had reached the bedroom, and he was distracted by the enormous bed with its elaborate headboard, which matched Crowley’s favorite chair.  “I, erm, yes, all right.  You can go first though, I wouldn’t want to use up the hot water.”

“Oh, don’t worry, angel—heat isn’t something I run out of,” Crowley declared.  “Here, make yourself at home.  I’ll be quick.”

He opened another door, giving Aziraphale a glimpse of a (predictably grey) _en suite_ bathroom before Crowley went in and closed the door behind him.  Aziraphale looked around and, finding nothing whatsoever about the room to be homey, sat down on the edge of the bed since there was nowhere else to sit.  He squawked when he sank down several inches into a down mattress topper.  Aziraphale leaned over to poke one of the four pillows at the top of the bed and found it to be filled with down as well.  Crowley did take his sleeping seriously, the angel observed.

Two dark nightstands flanked the bed, and a large matching bureau stood against the wall by the hallway door.  The room was unfurnished otherwise; the wall opposite the bed was occupied by the bathroom and a pair of sliding doors which Aziraphale assumed led to a closet.  There were no personal effects at all, and of course not a single book.  Aziraphale had never felt less at home in his life.

_We really do have nothing in common,_ he thought dismally.  _Although he never seemed uncomfortable in my home. . . he was always willing to come see me there.  Oh, I have been dreadfully unfair to him!_   The angel decided that as soon as Crowley returned, he would apologize and have done with it.

Aziraphale held on to his resolve until the precise moment that Crowley emerged from the bathroom wearing black silk pajamas and his sunglasses.  He had toweled his hair and left it sticking up in clumps, and the rest of him seemed to be somewhat damp as well, judging from how his pajamas clung to his lean body.  Looking at him, Aziraphale couldn’t have put two words together, much less formed the eloquent apology Crowley deserved.

“All yours,” Crowley said as he rounded the bed.  Aziraphale popped up to his feet as soon as Crowley sat down on the opposite side.

“Y-yes, right, thank you very much,” stammered the angel.

“Don’t mention it.”  Crowley leaned back into the pillows and brought his legs up onto the bed.  Aziraphale looked at the demon’s bare feet, swallowed, and hurried off to the bathroom.

\--

To be continued


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley felt nervous.

He couldn’t remember the last time Aziraphale had been over, but it must have been years.  He did remember that the angel had seemed uncomfortable and a touch disapproving the last time he’d been in Crowley’s flat.  Not that Crowley needed Aziraphale’s approval of his décor, or of anything else for that matter, but he _did_ want his friend to feel comfortable.  Which Aziraphale, apparently, did not feel, judging from how jumpy he was acting.

Also, Crowley was worried about the prophecy.  On the bus back to London, they had come up with a plan, but what if the plan didn’t work?  What if they had misunderstood the prophecy altogether?

_When alle is ſayed and all is done, ye must chooſe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre._

Agnes’s somewhat arbitrary use of the long S aside, the prophecy left too many unanswered questions for Crowley’s liking.  _Had_ all been said and done out there at the Tadfield base, or was there something more to say or do?  With what fire would he and Aziraphale be playing?  More importantly, _whose_ fire?  That could make all the difference.

 _We have to be right,_ Crowley argued with himself. _She clearly meant **hell** fire, and I’m well enough used to that._  Yes, but Aziraphale wasn’t at all used to it, and even if their plan worked, the angel might still be in danger.

And as for the “said and done” bit. . . certainly there were things Crowley would _like_ to say, and other things he would like very much to do, but Agnes couldn’t have known about _those_.

Crowley stood up, pulled the grey top sheet down, then got back into bed under it.  He felt his worries lessen a bit as he slid down between the sheets and nestled the back of his head into one of the pillows.  Bed always did make things better.  He pulled off his glasses with one hand and tossed them onto the nightstand to his left, where they landed with a clatter.

Crowley’s eyes had just dropped closed when he heard the bathroom door again.  He opened one of them to watch Aziraphale shuffle out of the bathroom, looking both disheveled and flustered.  He was wearing a fluffy, cream-colored dressing gown with gold trim, and fuzzy matching slippers on his feet.  Crowley grinned.

“Don’t we look comfy.”

Aziraphale sniffed, “Don’t tease.  Your bathroom is frigid, and it’s not much warmer in here.  I don’t know how you stand lying around in such thin clothing.”

“Hm?”  Crowley pushed the sheet back to look down at his pajamas.  He ran a hand over his thigh and plucked at the silk.  “Look, it’s not _that_ thin.”

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley’s leg, then back up to his face with a prim shake of his head before he edged up to the head of the bed opposite the demon.

“This is, ah, my side then,” Aziraphale mumbled.  He seemed most interested in the pillow, which he fluffed and then smoothed with one hand.

“Just get in.  I won’t bite,” Crowley sighed.  When Aziraphale didn’t move, Crowley shoved himself up on his elbow and leaned over to tug the sheet down on the other side of the bed.  Finally, the angel clambered into bed, leaving enough room for another person between himself and Crowley.

“Well!” said Aziraphale once he was seated, leaning up against the pillows and looking extremely awkward.  “This is, ah, quite. . . quite nice.”

“Isn’t it just,” muttered Crowley.  “Look, I’m putting out the light, all right?”  Before Aziraphale could reply, Crowley snapped his fingers, and the room went dark.  Aziraphale made a little startled sound.

“Oh!  Could you—could you put that back on, please?” he asked in an almost plaintive tone.  “There’s. . . there’s something I need to say to you.”  Crowley snapped the light back on and, still leaning on his elbow, looked over at the angel.

“Yeah?” he asked, sounding only tired and a touch put out.  The terrible fear which had struck him at  the words “something I need to say” wasn’t at all audible.

Aziraphale bent his head to regard his hands resting, fingers laced together, across his stomach.  He fidgeted.  Then, finally, he turned his face back to Crowley and blurted out, “I’m—I’m sorry.”

They weren’t the two words _(it’s over)_ Crowley had expected and dreaded.  In fact, he had no idea what to do with them.  He waited in case there was more— _I’m sorry but_ something—and nothing else came.  Aziraphale just sat there watching him with an apprehensive expression in his eyes and his lower lip caught between his teeth.

Eventually, Crowley asked, “Here, what for?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he spluttered, “‘What _for_?’  You—you don’t _know_?”

“For getting yourself discorporated and worrying the Hell—the Heav—the fuck out of me?” Crowley guessed.  “All right then, I forgive you—if demons _can_ forgive.  S’pose we can.  Well even if not, I do anyway.”

“No, that’s not it!” Aziraphale protested.  “Or, not all of it.  Part of it, yes, I’m sorry I worried you.  . . . You really were worried?” he asked, as if seeking reassurance.

“Of course I was worried!  I was blessed near falling apart, I thought I’d never see you again!”

Aziraphale smiled, softly, but then the smile faded and he murmured, “I thought you didn’t _want_ to see me again.  You said you weren’t going to think about me.”

Crowley rolled his eyes.  “I lied.  Obviously.  You said yourself, that’s what demons do.”

The angel cleared his throat and went on, “Well, anyhow.  The discorporation was neither intentional nor my fault.  Instead, I am apologizing for. . . .”  He trailed off and looked away from Crowley, vaguely in the direction of the closet.  “For not telling you that I knew where Adam was.  I was hoping to get to him first, you know, score one for the team. . . for my side.”  Aziraphale chuckled faintly, without much humor.  “I know what you said, that I didn’t have a side anymore, but I didn’t believe it then.  Now. . . now I know you were right.”

He glanced back at Crowley, but the demon was gazing down at Aziraphale’s hands and not at his face.  He looked at them, and at the gold ring on the right one, without really seeing them, instead thinking about Aziraphale keeping his research and what he found a secret, while Crowley believed they both were at a loss to find the boy who could end the world.

After a moment, Aziraphale spoke his name in a small voice.  “Crowley?”

“Hm?”  Crowley lifted his eyes to the angel’s and was surprised by the worry—and perhaps fear—he saw there.  “It’s—it’s all right.  It all worked out in the end, didn’t it?  And maybe you could’ve done it by yourself anyhow.”

“No.  No!”  Aziraphale shook his curly head emphatically.  “It took both of us, together.  I couldn’t have—I can’t get along without you, Crowley.”  Before Crowley could do more than be amazed, Aziraphale added, “That’s why I also owe you an apology for what I. . . what I said, that we weren’t friends.  And that I didn’t like you.”

“All that wasn’t true, then?” Crowley asked, just to make sure.  Aziraphale smiled again.

“None of it.  I do like you, very much.”

Crowley declared, “Apology accepted, then.”  He held out his hand, and Aziraphale shook it.  The angel’s hand felt warm and soft in Crowley’s, and he let go with reluctance.  He added, “And for what it’s worth, I feel the same way.  I can’t get along without you. . . and I like you.  Very much.”

Aziraphale continued to smile at him, gently—angelically, to coin a phrase.  Crowley felt as if he could melt in the warmth of that smile, until he remembered the prophecy, and all his earlier worries returned to him.  Aziraphale saw his change in expression and touched his hand again.

“Is something else the matter?” the angel asked.

“No, no,” Crowley started to lie; then he gave up and admitted, “Well—the prophecy does still worry me.  It’s so _vague_.  How can we be sure of what it means?”

“We can’t, I suppose,” Aziraphale admitted.  “But I think we’ve done the best we can to prepare.  You still agree with the plan, don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure, the plan is fine.”  Crowley waved his hand dismissively.  “But what if it’s not enough?  ‘Playing with fire,’ Agnes said.  You’ve already had trouble with fire once—”

“We both have.  The Bentley. . . .”  Aziraphale trailed off when Crowley grimaced.

“I know.  But the kind of fire we think she means—even if we swap. . . what if it isn’t enough?  You could be. . . hurt.  Or worse.”  Crowley stopped there.  He didn’t want to contemplate “or worse” after he’d almost lost Aziraphale once already.

“Worrying won’t do you any good,” insisted Aziraphale.  “We must have faith that it will turn out all right.”

“ _Faith?_ ” Crowley squawked.  “Faith in _whom_?  There’s absolutely no one we can trust, and anyway, demons don’t _do_ faith.”

Aziraphale studied him a few seconds then asked, “Do you have faith in _me_?”

“I. . . yes, I do,” Crowley admitted.

“Then I’ll tell you what I like to recall when I’m worried.  It’s from a book—”

 _Of course it is,_ thought Crowley.

“—written by one Dame Julian of Norwich during the fourteenth century.  I have—well, _had_ one of Cressey’s original manuscripts.”  Aziraphale sighed then continued, “Anyhow, the Almighty visited Dame Julian and told her—”

“Wait, wait,” Crowley interrupted.  “You, an _angel_ , can’t get the Almighty to pick up the line, but She just popped down for a visit with some human?”

Aziraphale frowned and murmured, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.  Anyhow, that’s not my point.  My point is what She _said_ to Dame Julian.  When that dear lady mourned over the pain caused by sin, the Almighty spoke to her and said, ‘All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.’”

“Kind of vague, isn’t it?” Crowley pointed out.  “Sounds like a bit of New Age mumbo jumbo, really.”

Aziraphale gave him a stern look and scolded, “Don’t blaspheme.  Anyhow, I find it rather comforting, and it’s not vague at all—‘All manner of thing shall be well’ means just that, everything.”

“All right, angel.  I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Crowley acquiesced, without much conviction.  Aziraphale looked at him rather unhappily, then slid a bit closer and put his right hand on Crowley’s left shoulder.  Crowley jumped.

“Do try not to worry.  Especially not about me,” Aziraphale murmured.  He squeezed Crowley’s shoulder, then withdrew to his side of the bed.  “Right then, you can douse the light.”

Crowley snapped it off and huddled back under the sheet.  He heard Aziraphale shifting to lie down, then turning this way and that as he tried to get comfortable.  Finally, the angel lay still, and Crowley heard him speak from closer than expected.  Close enough to reach out and touch, in fact.

“Good night, Crowley,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley thought about some of the things he had left still unsaid and undone; then he told Aziraphale, “G’night, angel.”

\--

To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh, where do you guys want this to go from here? More awkwardness? Sappy? Sexytimes? Because I feel very awkward about this fic, as it's difficult to make these two cooperate, and yeah, suggestions are appreciated.
> 
> Also I have a tumblr: [allewyn.tumblr.com](http://allewyn.tumblr.com)  
> I post Good Omens photosets. Come talk to me.


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